


grasps the empty sky

by Ireliss



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragons, Gen, High Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 01:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20201644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/pseuds/Ireliss
Summary: Charles Xavier is sent to slay a dragon. He ends up rescuing a wounded man instead — he knows Erik Lehnsherr from somewhere, he's sure of it, but between Charles' wavering control over his powers and the secrets Erik clutches tightly against his chest, this mission is quickly spiraling into a fine mess...





	grasps the empty sky

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this prompt](https://centrumlumina.tumblr.com/post/186441807384/ratcoded-dnd-campaign-pitch-the-king-sends-you) although it diverged somewhat
> 
> dnd campaign pitch: the king sends you to kill a dragon that’s been ravaging the lands but when you get there it turns out the dragon only has a price on its head because it has sensitive information about the king’s political scandals and it needs your help leaking them to the press

After the servants clear away the dishes, after Lord Shaw explains his reasons for summoning him in the first place, Charles only says: “The Grey King? A rather odd name for a dragon, that.”

“But a fitting one.” Charles’ liege lord motions for a servant to refill their winecups. “Grey for the colour of its scales, grey for the ashes it leaves in his wake – or so the smallfolk report. It must be stopped.”

"You must know that I'm a poor choice for this, I've always believed that man and dragon-"

"Can live in harmony, yes." Shaw interrupts, looking bored. "I heard you the first twenty times. But you've heard what this beast has done. You still believe you can make peace?"

"Always," Charles says firmly, and Shaw laughs.

"Oh, dear Charles, that's why you're my favourite." The glint of greed in Shaw's eyes is nothing new, but as always, Charles elects to ignore it, taking a calm sip of his wine.

Shaw drinks as well. "Oh, fine then." He waves a careless hand. "I'll send someone else to deal with it."

"No, no, I'll be glad to handle the matter. I just think resorting to _killing _right away is not the answer."

"What, you planning to talk it into submission?"

"There must be a reason for what it's doing. I'm going to find out what it is."

"It'll kill you." Shaw's eyes bore into him. "No, not physically, that would be a kindness. It'll turn your mind against itself. It'll turn you against us, you, my best knight. It'll make you its _slave, _is that what you want?"

***

On his second week of hard riding, Charles catches a glimpse of the dragon.

The sun hangs low in the sky, bathing the world in the orange-red glow of fire when, without warning, a swift shadow passes over Charles. Charles snaps his head up, eyes scanning the skies - there! Sunlight reflects off the dragon's wings, outstretched in flight. They gleam like sheets of burnished metal, darkly iridescent, a thousand different subdued colours of the rainbow shimmering across the iron-like span.

The dragon doesn't seem to be hostile. It's not burning and destroying, it's not even hunting; it simply _is. _It soars in long, lazy patterns, and Charles' breath catches at the sight of its beautiful, deadly splendor.

He watches it for a long time, an unnameable ache in his chest, until it disappears into the horizon.

***

"A big grey dragon? I've seen it a few times in the distance, but if it's been causing trouble, it's not hereabouts."

"Only problem we've had lately is from drakes, I've not heard anything about this Grey King of yours."

"I heard it lairs a few days west of here, but I've never seen the thing myself."

It's the same story no matter where he goes: nobody has ever seen the dragon up close, and nobody has ever had their land and animals and family razed to the ground. The dragon doesn't even take livestock, preferring to do its hunting elsewhere. Charles' own eyes confirm the story: the villages he passes are industrious but peaceful, their fields ripe and golden, ready for the harvest. The people are welcoming and their children play out in the open, in meadows dotted with wildflowers, not a single hint of fear to be seen. It is not the look of a region devastated by a dragon. Just what is Shaw playing at?

Then Charles comes upon the garrison.

It's the smell of burning that first attracts his notice. Then he sees the smoke, rising in grey clouds above the treetops. Instantly alert, Charles urges his horse into a faster trot.

When he comes to the end of the road, he's greeted with a scene of devastation. The stone walls of the garrison are scorched and blackened, the heavy gate of reinforced wood an unrecognizable heap of charred ashes.

Worst of all are the bodies piled up at the gate, soldiers cut down by fang and claw and flame as they fled for their lives. Useless, against a dragon. Charles scans the skies - there are still fires burning, the attack can't have been very long ago - but there's nothing, nothing except smoke.

Charles dismounts quickly, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other moving in quick, precise gestures as he mutters the words of a shield spell. Not many have the mixture of innate talent and ironclad discipline necessary for the study of magic; he's one of the few battlemages serving under Shaw, and the strongest.

Perhaps too strong. Charles grimaces as his magic flares, fire-sparks whiting out his vision, but he's adept by now at wrestling his magic back under his control. Once his vision returns to normal, he starts forward cautiously, only stopping when he reaches the grisly pile of bodies. The garrison is a small one; it wouldn't be manned by any more than twenty soldiers, and almost half that number are here.

All those lives, snuffed out in an instant. Charles pushes back his sorrow and drops to one knee, critically examining the injuries: gashes, mainly, but not so large and deep that they would have come from one of those ancient, massive wyrms capable of slicing a man in half with a glancing blow. The dragon he's dealing with can't be much larger than a young adult, although of course dragon morphology can vary greatly...

Charles climbs back to both feet, heading deeper into the garrison. There are more bodies strewn on the ground, many of them clutching bloodied weapons; they must have landed a few good hits on the dragon. It wasn't enough to save them. Charles' heart sinks the longer he searches, not a single living soul to be found

Then he rounds a corner and he sees a wild-eyed soldier with his sword drawn, poised to thrust it through the chest of an unconscious figure lying on the ground.

Charles doesn't stop to think. "_Fus!_" A blast of concussive force leaps from his outstretched hand, slamming the soldier to the ground. Charles draws his own sword as he steps forward. "What's going on here?"

"Back off!" The soldier snarls, scrabbling for his sword. Charles kicks it further away. "He's working with the dragon! I've seen him skulking around these past few days, he-"

"He is an unarmed, unconscious man!" Charles crouches down next to him. To his surprise, the man's eyes are open, but glassy and unfocused. Blood stains the wooden floor under him, and Charles can see cruel lacerations across his chest.

But his clothing is strange; nothing like what the men of the garrison wear. And that face... There's something familiar about the sharp cheekbones, the glint of copper in his hair. Charles frowns, trying to place it, but his concentration is broken by a snarl from the soldier. He had pulled himself back to his feet and is now making another lunge for his sword, but Charles intercepts him easily, snatching the sword away from his fumbling grip.

"Enough of this," he says sternly. "My name is Charles Xavier, I'm one of the knights sworn to the service of Lord Sebastian Shaw. Just what is going on here?"

"I came back from patrol to find _\- this. _I looked-" The soldier's voice cracks. "Everyone was dead. Except him. I told you, I've seen him! He's been spying on us! And now..."

It's a story full of gaping holes and tenuous connections - certainly not enough for Charles to order the execution of a defenseless man. "I know you're grieving and angry, but killing him now will be a mistake. There's too much we don't know. He may be an innocent man, as much of a victim of this attack as you are."

"_You don't know what you're talking about,_" the man snarls, helpless fury contorting across his face. "All you high and mighty knights, you don't know-"

"I will take him back to the city," Charles interjects firmly. "We'll question him thoroughly, I promise you. Come with us. Your testimony will be invaluable."

"Fuck you." All at once, the fury leaves the soldier. He slumps against the wall. "Do what you want. You'll wake up to a knife in your back tonight, and I'll bury your body along with the rest."

***

The injured man goes quietly with Charles, docile as a lamb, his eyes still vacant and dazed. As much as his heart aches for him, Charles takes no chance: he binds the man's arms and searches him for weapons before he brings him away from the garrison.

"I have medical supplies in my saddlebag, but we'll ride back to the closest village to get you proper treatment. I'm afraid you'll have to stay with me for a while, until we get all of this sorted out."

Charles is sure that the man hears him, but he gives no response, and the vacant look in his eyes doesn't fade. Shock? But no, there's _something_ buzzing at the edges of Charles' magic-sense, a whisper that something isn't quite right... He directs the man to sit on the grass, carefully arranging him to rest against the trunk of a tree as he removes his shirt to clean and dress his wounds. They don't look like wounds that have come from a dragon's fangs or claws. If anything, they look like wounds inflicted by a blade.

"You saved me."

Charles starts, gaze flicking up to meet the stranger's pale eyes. The blankness has not entirely faded, but there's an intensity not present before.

"I would not condemn a man to death without knowing all the facts," Charles says. "Although now that you're lucid, I hope you can give me some answers. How are you feeling?"

"I've had worse before. I'll recover." The man grimaces. Charles can't place his accent - it's a mix of many things, some of them infuriatingly familiar, a fading memory he can't properly grasp. "Am I your prisoner?" He shrugs his bound arms.

"Unfortunately, yes, you were found under some rather suspicious circumstances." Charles gives him a small smile, wanting to show the man that he does not mean to treat him unkindly, despite his status. "May I have your name?"

"Erik. Erik Lehnsherr."

"Charles Xavier, a sworn knight under Lord Sebastian Shaw. I promise you, I will ensure you are treated fairly and with justice."

Rather than look comforted, Erik skewers him with a sharp look. "Shaw? Sebastian Shaw?"

"You must know of him, surely, these lands are under his rule. Are you a traveller?"

"You could say that."

Charles frown, giving the man's shoulder a brief squeeze. His skin is terribly cold and clammy. "I would advise you to be forthright in your answers. You're in a great deal of trouble, my friend."

Erik barks a sharp laugh. "Fine. Ask your questions."

"What were you doing at the garrison?"

"Attacking it, what else?"

Charles' composure fractures, and he stares at Erik in open shock. "...I'm sorry?" He manages. There are still bandages in his hands, and Erik is _smiling _at him, teeth bared, fierce and hungry yet without a shred of malice. If anything, he seems entertained.

"You heard me."

"I did - I'm sorry, I'm just very..." He shakes his head, knowing Erik is deliberately throwing him off-balance. "You were working with the dragon? You're admitting it openly?"

"Yes. Problem?"

"Many," Charles snaps, the broken, bloody corpses flashing in his memory. "All those men, Erik! Why?"

"It was justice," Erik growls. "I've heard of you before, Charles Xavier. Shaw's right hand, his keenest blade, his most powerful mage. He sent you to slay a dragon, didn't he?"

Charles watches him with warily. "He did, but killing it was not my intention."

"Good. Because he wants to meet you."

***

The healers are skittish around Erik, but under the weight of Charles' watchful gaze they finish tending his wounds quickly and retreat, leaving the two of them alone in the inn room. Erik rolls his shoulders and makes as if to stretch. Charles shakes his head. "You had better stay still, or you'll open your injuries again."

"Going to stop me?"

"Don't make me tie you up again," Charles warns. He had cut Erik loose from the ropes for now, knowing there's no easy way for Erik to escape when they're both indoors, in such close proximity to each other.

Surprisingly, Erik's mouth quirks in a half-smile. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Charles can only stare. "You're flirting with me?" He gives Erik a quick once-over, noting the way Erik's smile widens, hungry. "You're flirting with me," Charles repeats, flat.

"Am I?"

"Godssakes," Charles groans. And to think usually _he's _the irrepressible flirt. "Come on now, business first, and don't forget you're supposed to be my prisoner. What's all this about the dragon?"

Erik's eyes go sharp in an instant. "Do you know why Shaw wants him dead?"

"Supposedly, it- that is, _he, _the dragon, is terrorizing the region."

"Supposedly?"

"I've seen no signs of it," Charles admits, intrigued enough by the whole thing to be forthright with his observations. "Nothing I've seen matches the reports Lord Shaw has shown me. The only thing that even comes close is the attack on the garrison."

Erik looks satisfied. "So you don't believe the reports. You've seen Shaw is a liar."

"I wouldn't go quite that far." And he certainly doesn't trust Erik, not with the bloody, burning horror of the garrison still fresh in his mind. "But I sense something incredibly complex is at work here, and I intend to discover what."

Erik huffs out a low breath through his nose. "None so blind as those who will not see," he mutters, ignoring the way Charles bristles in indignation, "but it's a start. So you'll come?"

"To where?"

"To meet the dragon, of course," Erik says, confirming Charles' suspicions.

***

The next morning sees them on their way. Despite his injuries, Erik sets a brisk pace, handling his hired horse with a deft touch that makes Charles sit up and take notice. Again, that sense of familiarity twinges. "You're a good rider."

"Is this the part where I compliment you in return?"

Charles ignores the jibe. "Where did you learn?"

"Before."

"Before what? Before you started working for the dragon?"

"Something like that."

Charles exhales, slow, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You'll have to give me a straight answer eventually."

Again Erik's mouth quirks in a smile. "I don't see why, you already trust me enough to give me freedom." Just to prove his point, he twitches at the reins, making his horse snort and toss its head, quickening its trot. Charles raises an eyebrow.

"If you're going to run off, you'd have done it already." No, he has no fear at all on that account; it's clear Erik wants something from him, and he'll stick around until he gets it. "At least tell me something about yourself. Have we met before?"

_That _gets Erik's attention. "What do you mean?"

"When I look at you, you feel familiar, somehow. I don't understand it entirely myself." Charles' eyes sweep over Erik again, taking in the way his grip tightens on the reins. "Who are you, really?"

"I've told you already."

"Only a name. That doesn't mean much." Charles urges his mount forward, riding by Erik's side. "Besides, there's more to you, I can feel it."

"Don't be so quick to trust your feelings," Erik warns, then shakes his head. "But no, we've never met before, or at least not properly. Trust me, I'd have remembered." He grins, eyes gleaming.

_Flirting again? _"I _did _save you," Charles points out, quite reasonably so, in his opinion. "Surely I'm owed at least an answer or two?"

"I just gave you one, didn't I?"

"You're awful," Charles informs him, but his words are entirely without rancor, and his heart is strangely light from the easy back and forth of their banter. Judging from the brightness of Erik's eyes, he feels the same way.

By unspoken agreement, they stop for the night when the sun is beginning to set, and the easy forested path begins to narrow into craggy, mountainous terrain. Erik disappears to gather firewood, and although letting him out of sight stirs up uneasy thoughts, Charles reminds himself that he had chosen to place his trust in Erik.

He needn't have worried. Erik returns even before Charles had finished setting up camp, a bundle of kindling in his arms which he lights with a muttered word. Charles feels magic shiver across his skin, candle-bright.

"You're a mage?" Charles exclaims, astonished.

"No need to be so surprised, you're one too."

Charles leaves his pack, strolling over to stand next to Erik, peering into the fire. It burns merrily, warming his hands. "Where did you train?"

"...The capital," Erik says, after an odd pause.

"Oh, I did the majority of my training there too. I wonder if we ran into each other there?" Perhaps he saw Erik from afar; that would explain the sense of familiarity Charles can't shake. Though it's still a conundrum; mages are generally a close-knit lot, and he can't remember ever hearing Erik's name come up...

"Might have," Erik allows.

"Who did you train under?"

Erik only grunts, so Charles continues: "I myself studied under Highmage Marko. Perhaps y-"

Charles interrupts himself, frowning at the way Erik's expression goes dark and shuttered. "Not a friend of yours, I take it?"

"No."

"He's not the most patient of masters," an absolute _understatement, _if there ever was one, "but I've not heard anything about him that warrants such enmity." Marko's students being the exception. Charles would gladly never see the man again, but even he has to concede that Marko is an astute scholar.

"We already established there's a lot you don't know."

Charles makes an exasperated noise. "And whose fault is that? You've yet to give me a single straight answer."

Erik eyes him speculatively. Then: "What branch of magic did Marko specialize in?"

"...Summoning," Charles replies, a touch unsure, but he's leaning forward subconsciously, enthralled by the promise of _finally _having some of his questions answered.

"No," the word is almost a growl. "No. _Binding. _Beasts, demons, elementals... Everything he summons, he engraves his marks onto their skin. He takes away their free will. He _mutates_ them, twists them into other forms to serve himself."

Erik looks at him with such intensity that it steals Charles' breath away. That fury...It must be a personal matter. Charles' nimble mind quickly connects the dots. "He's done this to someone you're close to. The dragon?"

A nod. Charles feels his heart constrict, and he touches Erik's shoulder lightly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. Is there some way I can help reverse it?"

"It's already been taken care of."

"Then..." What does the dragon want with him, if not to destroy his old Master's spells? But the look on Erik's face tells him he won't be getting any more answers for now, so Charles steps away, back to where he's been preparing food for the two of them. "Were you the one who unravelled the spells? You must be a powerful mage."

Erik crouches by the fire, looking for all the world like he wants nothing more than to jump straight into it. Charles is reminded of that clammy, deathly coldness to Erik's skin when they had first met. Erik's thoughts must be running along the same lines, because he shakes his head, placing his hands so close to the fire that Charles has to restrain himself from smacking them away before Erik burns himself.

"It took me too many months," Erik says at long last. "I'm not powerful enough. Not for the war that's coming."

"War?"

"You can't seriously think the dragons will meekly accept this?"

"Erik..." His head is spinning with too much new information. Charles steps back to crouch by the fire next to Erik, settling his hand lightly against Erik's shoulder. Erik stiffens but doesn't brush him off. "What Marko did was a terrible thing, I'll grant you, and I'm happy to bring official charges against him once I've spoken to the dragon he's attempted to enslave. But he's only one man. Surely the dragons can't be planning to declare war on the basis of one man's crimes."

"It's not just one man," Erik snarls. "Open your eyes, Charles! Why do you think I was attacking that garrison?"

"How would I know when you refuse to tell me anything?"

Erik stares at him, and despite the seriousness of the situation, the quiet intensity in Erik's expression is breathtaking. "I couldn't - I can't trust you with this yet. I don't know if you'll go running back to Shaw."

It seems like every question answered only opens up more questions. "Lord Shaw? What does he have to do with this?"

"Everything. He's behind all of it. Everything that happens, it happens under his orders."

For a few seconds, Charles can't speak. Then the fire crackles and he jumps, tongue darting out to wet his lips. The implications of all this... It's too vast, too frightening for his mind to grasp, hungry and worn out after a day of hard travel. "...You're saying, what, Lord Shaw has ordered the enslavement of a dragon?"

"_Multiple _dragons," Erik corrects. "Hatchlings, mostly. Every single one he can find and overpower -- he's even taking eggs and giving them to Marko and his ilk to hatch."

"That's impossible. I would have seen-"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Erik's expression twists, pain and fury lashing out in a wave of desolation. "Has Shaw bedded you yet?"

"_Excuse me?_"

"Forget it." Fierce as a snapping fire, Erik surges to his feet and stalks away, anger radiating from his every movement.

Charles, of course, follows. "Erik! Come back, you can't just keep doing this-"

Erik whirls around to face him, and his eyes _blaze. _His mouth opens to say something, and Charles can feel the thrum of magic in the air, reaching into him, soul-deep-

***

The mountain path had grown narrow and treacherous while Charles' attention was elsewhere. For a moment, as he watches Erik in front of him, skilfully guiding his mount through the ash-grey terrain, Charles feels an overwhelming sense of _déjà vu_. He gently nudges it into the back of his mind. It would hardly be the first time he looks at Erik and finds him inexplicably familiar seeming.

Erik is quiet this morning - not a surprise; he had hardly been chatty yesterday - but there's a pensive quality to his mood that sense unease stirring in Charles' mind. Erik brushes off his inquiries, and during the times they stop to rest and water their horses, Erik withdraws into himself, distracted, almost angry. After a while, Charles leaves him to it.

They're riding around a particularly tricky bend when Erik suddenly stops, one hand snapping up with military precision. "Halt." His voice rings with command. "I think I hear cliff-ghasts."

Cliff-ghasts, gigantic bat-like creatures with a taste for carrion, not above procuring an easy meal by spooking a wary horse into throwing its rider off the mountainside. Charles readies a spell, fire crackling between the gaps of his fingers, but he keeps his eyes on Erik. The way Erik moves and rides, the way he commands - all of that speaks of formal training.

The first ghast appears. Where there's one, there's usually another two or three lurking. Charles waits, his spell still at the ready, tension crackling through the air.

Closer and closer the ghast comes, and Erik's untrained horse paws nervously at the ground. Erik himself is cupping something in his hands. Even from this distance, Charles can feel the whisper of magic against his skin, almost a caress.

The battle strikes like a thunderbolt. Erik casts his hand out, silver projectiles flashing through the air to embed into the cliff-ghast's chest like in a furious blaze of fire. Two more ghasts swoop down at the same time, coming in hard from the opposite direction - Charles shouts an alarm as he hurls his readied spell at them, flames exploding through the air and driving the ghasts to the ground in a violent plume of smoke and burning.

"Good work," Erik says, but his voice sounds far away. With a start, Charles realizes he's hunched over into himself, his power rippling across his skin in waves of golden fire, hot enough to burn. His horse, although well-trained, is snorting and tossing its head, ears flicking agitatedly.

Charles' nails dig into his palms. "I'm sorry," he says through gritted teeth. "Just give me a moment, please."

If Erik replies, Charles doesn't hear it. His every conscious thought is devoted to calming the blazing inferno of his magic. Shuddering, he draws the fire back inside himself – the old scars on his back are burning, _gods, _it hurts...

Dimly, he registers the feeling of careful hands against his back, around his shoulders, helping him off his mount. Those same hands guide him to sit on the ground. Someone presses a waterskin against his lips; Charles drinks greedily, desperate to quench the uncontrollable blaze.

Lucid thought returns in a trickle, then a flood, extinguishing the last sparks of his power. All at once Charles feels unbearably weary, but he soldiers through his exhaustion to raise his head and give Erik an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me. My magic... It's usually not so uncontrolled, I swear it."

"Don't talk," Erik says gruffly. "Are you hurt? Let me see your hands."

Too tired to protest, Charles merely watches, mildly taken aback, as Erik takes one of his hands and gently cradles it. Erik's hands are gloved, and the leather feels warm and supple against Charles' skin as he checks for burns. He turns Charles' hand over, skimming along his fingers and down the palm, brushing against Charles' wrist. Under the warmth of Erik’s fingers, Charles’ pulse jumps, as if ready to leap out of his skin.

Charles darts a glance at Erik's face, taking in the quiet intensity of his expression. At that very moment, Erik glances up and - _oh. _Heat jolts deliciously down Charles' spine.

He shakes his head. _No time for this, you're on a mission here, and he's - nominally - your prisoner, it would be highly inappropriate. _Charles withdraws his hand and gives Erik the calmest smile he can manage. "Satisfied?"

"You should rest."

"You know, for some reason, I'm not particularly keen on resting somewhere crawling with cliff-ghasts."

Erik's mouth twitches, showing just a hint of teeth. It's impossible to tell if he's smiling or not. "They won't bother us again."

"Probably not," Charles concedes. Cliff-ghasts are notoriously cowardly. "Still. I'd rather keep going." There's a mystery here that he's only barely scratched the surface of. He's itching to meet this dragon and finally get some answers.

"Bad idea." Erik settles himself on the ground, the stubborn man. "It's about time for lunch anyway. We'll eat and let our horses get some rest."

"You just enjoy being difficult," Charles accuses, but he can't bring himself to protest any more than that. His loss of control had shaken him more than he cares to admit.

Besides, there's something he'd like to ask Erik.

Charles makes his move after they both settle down with some bread and hard cheese from the saddlebags. With deceptive mildness, he leans forward, peering intently at Erik. "I had trouble placing it for the longest time, but now that I've had more time to watch you, I think I know the answer. You've been through formal knighthood training, haven't you?"

Erik stiffens. Emboldened, Charles presses on: "And not just training. You've held a command post of some sort. The way you ride, the way you move and the way you hold yourself... I can feel it."

The speed with which Erik recovers is impressive; already, he's smiling again, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Astute. Figured out who I am yet?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid. You must have left before I joined the knighthood... Unless you didn't serve under Lord Shaw?"

"I served him, all right." Erik bares his teeth in an expression too ferocious to be a smile.

Charles' eyes narrow as he turns the information over in his head. "If you can use magic as well, then you must be part of his elite guard, just like me." All the clues are falling into place now: a battlemage, a young commander that had disappeared from the knighthood before Charles came along...

"Eisen!" Charles exclaims, stunned. "Ser Eisen the Ironhearted! But how - you were Lord Shaw's closest confidant." Charles can see him so clearly in his memories now: a lean, powerful figure, never far from Shaw's side. _Shaw’s dog, _people had sneered, but Charles had only ever admired the young mage and his brilliant, ferocious intensity. He had always counted it a shame that he never had the opportunity to meet Eisen in person, always, he had only been able to observe Shaw’s favourite from afar; it's no wonder he wasn't able to recognize Erik on sight. "You simply vanished one day. We never got an explanation."

"And then he replaced me with you."

"I hold your rank, but I could never replace you. Erik - Eisen, whoever you are - you're supposed to his protege. People even say he was grooming you to rule by his side!"

"He was _using _me, just like he's been using you! Don't you see the truth yet?"

"The truth?"

Erik shakes his head. "Think, Charles."

He tries, he really does, but nothing comes to mind, and Erik refuses to say anything more. "We'll reach the lair tomorrow," is all he says. "You'll have your answers then."

***

His power is restless within him for the rest of the day, a dozing beast that stirs at the slightest of provocations. By the time they set up camp for the night Charles' head is pounding and his skin feels too small and tight; he is trapped, bound.

The night deepens around him. Erik is an unmoving shape on the opposite side of their makeshift camp, wrapped in his cloak. The campfire is beginning to die. Its subdued red glow is barely enough to illuminate the barren ground of the cliffs. Charles watches the flicker of flame and the pinpricks of firesparks, and still, sleep continues to prove elusive.

Carefully, he rises to his feet, padding over to the saddlebags. There's a small pouch of crushed powder he carries with him at all times - he carefully tips some of it into a little pot now, murmuring a quiet incantation as he adds water to form a thick, dark paste. Already, the mixture makes his skin crawl.

Nothing for it. His head still aches_, _his power hissing and snarling under his skin. Charles retrieves a small paintbrush from his bag then sits again, tugging off his top as he does.

As he suspects, the marks of binding that snake around his arms are beginning to fade although it should have been at least another week or two before he had to renew them. Tongue between his teeth, Charles dips his brush into the mixture and begins to laboriously retrace the seals.

The process is - _unpleasant. _The paste sinks into his skin the instant it's applied, leaving fresh, dark lines in its wake, the red of congealed blood. Charles has to stop every so often to take a steadying breath, fighting off nausea. He's cold. Clammy. Something about this process has always felt deeply, unnervingly _wrong, _like being touched by a thousand pairs of hands, like having someone - Marko - reach inside him and _pull..._

"What are you doing?"

Charles jumps, almost ruining the current seal. He hurriedly pulls the brush away from his skin. "Erik! I thought you were asleep."

Erik's body blocks the firelight. His face is cast in shadow, but Charles can see enough to know that his expression is absolutely thunderous. "What. Are you doing."

It's not a conversation Charles wants to have, especially when Erik has refused to give him a single straight answer. "Go back to sleep, Erik, this doesn't concern you."

"No." Erik drops to one knee in front of him, crouching close. "I recognize those seals. That's Marko's work."

"How do you-" Charles pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm serious. I'm not having this conversation."

"You're binding your own magic?"

"_Yes,_" Charles snaps, losing his temper. It's late and his head is throbbing. He just wants to sleep. "Now would you please leave me alone, thank you."

"Charles..." There's an odd note to Erik's voice, a hint of concern where previously there had only been aggression. Charles looks at him, uncertain, only to find Erik watching him with an expression Charles can only describe as beseeching. "You saved my life when we first met," Erik says, still with that strange gentleness. "I haven't forgotten that. I _will _repay you, I promise. So trust me when I say you don't need to do this to yourself."

Charles picks up the brush again. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough. How old were you when Marko first put those seals on you?"

Charles' grip tightens around the brush. Ruthlessly, Erik continues: "Has he ever tried to teach you to control your power? Your full, unbound power? Has he ever given you the chance to try?"

"You're talking about things you don't understand, I don't owe you my whole life histo-"

"I know enough. You were hurting yourself. I won't stand by and watch that happen."

"It's necessary," Charles says shortly. Erik is painting a tempting picture for him, but that's all it is - a pretty picture. A fantasy. Erik doesn't know what it feels like to struggle with himself, desperately clinging to serenity lest his untamed power traps him in a labyrinth, an inferno- "I concede that the process is difficult, but I'll feel much better once it's completed."

"So you'll do this to yourself every single day of your life."

"It's hardly every day, it's-" Erik is frowning alarmingly at the way Charles argues semantics, so Charles snaps his mouth shut and rubs at his temples. "All right, yes. I'll do this for as long as I have to."

Erik leans closer. Unexpectedly, he extends one hand, resting it lightly on Charles' bared shoulder. It's warm. "Give me a chance," Erik says, gentle again. "I can help you."

"How?"

"Just focus on me. Deep breaths. Let go, Charles."

It's not going to work. He'll hurt Erik. Charles opens his mouth, about to say as much, but he can feel an undercurrent of magic in the air and he knows Erik is drawing on his own power to weave a shield-spell. Of course. Erik is an accomplished mage himself; if anyone can make it through unscathed...

"Let go, Charles," Erik repeats encouragingly, with more gentleness than Charles had thought him capable of.

Charles closes his eyes. Tentatively, very tentatively, he allows his muscles to loosen. He had chained his power deep inside himself, muffling it like kicking dirt over a campfire. Now, he reaches for it with careful fingers, encouraging the fire to bloom.

And bloom it does, unfurling in waves of crimson and gold, blazing with a blue-white core. Charles' instinct is to suppress it again, knowing from past experience that it doesn't take much for it to spread into a wildfire, burning out of control, but the warmth of Erik's hand against his shoulder anchors him. His power ripples against Erik's, and they both tense, the intimacy of the contact shocking.

Before Charles can rip himself away, Erik presses closer, his own power encircling Charles'. It also feels like fire, but it burns bright and steady as the sun.

"Feeling better?"

Charles exhales. "Yes." It's true. His heart is pounding in a confused din of emotion, but the headache had faded somewhat, and he no longer feels as though he's itching out of his skin.

"You won't bind yourself again?"

"...I can't promise that, my friend. But I won't do anything more tonight."

***

Charles wakes in good spirits the next morning. Something of his connection to Erik from last night continues to linger, their powers tangling together at the edges, suffusing Charles with warmth. A good thing, as it turns out; it gets progressively colder the further they ride up the mountainside. Charles huddles into his cloak, but Erik looks at home, scanning the terrain with bright, keen eyes.

"Leave the horses here," Erik says. They dismount, and Erik leads them up a narrow trail which ends in an entrance to a cave system. With a flourish, Erik produces a magical ball of flame to illuminate the path ahead of them and the two of them trek down the tunnel together.

"Rather small, for a dragon," Charles observes. There's barely room for two people to walk abreast, and the ceiling is far too low for a dragon to move about comfortably in.

"He doesn't use these tunnels in dragon form."

"...Dragon form?"

Erik turns to him. In the flickering light of the spell-fire, his grin is very sharp. "You'll see."

The passage abruptly ends in a _door, _of all things. And behind that door are entirely normal rooms: a study, a bedroom, even a kitchen and a washroom, all of it spartan but still comfortable – and entirely functional.

"What-"

"Come on." Past another door, and now _this _room looks decidedly more dragonish, craggy and high-ceilinged, magical artefacts arranged throughout nooks and crannies and rough-carved pedestals of iron. More tunnels lead from the room, and these are more than large enough for a dragon to traverse.

"Where's the dragon?"

"Come on." Erik is still grinning, sharp and full of reckless challenge. "You must have guessed already."

Charles knows. Deep inside, he thinks he's known for some time now, ever since he's touched Erik's power and felt its fiery blaze. "It's been you all along. You're the dragon."

Erik nods.

"But why? What was the point of all that deception? You could have transformed any time, saved us the trouble of that ride up the mountain."

"It's not that easy." Erik moves, striding rapidly down the hall in search of something. He comes to a stop in front of a massive fire opal that burns with its own inner light, scattering flecks of of red and gold across the two of them. "The attack on the garrison and the injuries I took there depleted my energy. I can't transform without some extra help."

Erik reaches out to touch the fire opal, and Charles can feel the shift of energies as power funnels from the opal into Erik.

"You never did explain why you were attacking the garrison."

A growl - and is it his imagination, or does Erik's voice sound deeper than before, more guttural? "I told you. It was justice. They were working with Shaw. They were poaching, stealing eggs."

Dread pools in Charles' stomach. "...Dragon eggs, you mean. They were stealing your children."

The air shimmers like a desert mirage. When Charles opens his eyes again, Erik is gone - instead, in his place stands the dragon he had seen during the early stages of his journey. Charles' first impression is that of _iron_, metal beaten to a darkly iridescent sheen, scales like armour crowned with jagged spikes. The dragon radiates the heat of a blazing furnace

He should be intimidated. Terrified. Instead, Charles feels strangely at home.

The dragon lowers his head. It has Erik's eyes, a shifting expanse of blue-green-grey, thrumming with Erik's trademark intensity. When he speaks, his voice echoes in Charles' mind:

_Shaw captured me as a child. He had Marko bind my wings, seal my memories, lock me into human form. He raised me as a human and taught me to hate my own kin. I was his pet project. Most of the seals Marko uses now - they were all developed on me. As the years passed, they developed darker things as well. Blood magic. Trigger words. Layers and layers of enchantments to suffocate the mind and bury free will._

Charles remembers being three or four, squirming fearfully on a stone table as Marko bends over him, etching rust-red lines across his skin. He remembers being six, fever wracking his whole body with dry heat, Marko forcing something down his throat that makes his mind go white and woollen.

Erik's attention never wavers from him. His voice rings in Charles' mind, the truth washing over him like flames, cleansing, inescapable.

_They developed most of those techniques on me, but I was not the only one subject to them. They did the same thing to you, Charles. They stole you away and bound you to their will._

_Let me set you free._


End file.
